My Analog Songkran
What a water fight taught me about resisting a synthetic life
Please forgive the brief pause in (margin*notes)^squared — I’ve been in Indonesia, spending the past two weeks training senior officials working on the country’s AI regulations and frameworks. It was one of those stretches where real-world work fully takes over (in the best way). I shared a few thoughts just before heading to Jakarta, and I’ll link here to what the Ministry of Communication and Digital (Komdigi) had to say for those curious.
Smack! I got hit right in the center of my chest, even before I saw it coming – by a stream of icy cold water!
That’s how Songkran works. No warning. No optimisation. No algorithm deciding whether you’re the right target.
Just life — happening to you.
I had just come back from Indonesia, where I’d been helping train senior officials working on the country’s AI regulations. A week spent thinking about systems that will increasingly shape how millions of people live, work, make decisions and thrive (or not).
And then I landed back home in Thailand and walked straight into Songkran celebrations. Where none of that mattered.
I’ve lost count, but I’ve certainly had more than a couple dozen Songkrans in my life. Over the years, I’ve watched it grow and morph, drawing in foreigners from all over the world, with cities and neighbourhoods turning into giant, joyful battlegrounds of water fights, music and laughter.
If you’ve never experienced it, Songkran is cultural heritage worth your time. Step outside, and you’re a target. Even policemen aren’t spared. Staying dry simply isn’t an option. You’re part of the community and you’re part of Songkran.
But also don’t forget that Songkran is more than just joy-filled chaos.
According to UNESCO, where Songkran was inscribed as intangible cultural heritage in 2023, it marks the sun’s transition into Aries and the traditional Thai New Year. (Similar water splashing can be found in Myanmar, Cambodia and Laos, too.) It’s a time for family, for paying respect to elders and ancestors, for cleansing and renewal. Water, in this context, is symbolic: of reverence, good fortune and washing away misfortune.
Washing away misfortune. I Iike that a lot. And what I love most about Songkran is what happens in the streets (and, yes, sometimes even indoors, too).
Phones get sealed away in plastic bags. People grab water guns and little buckets, throw on old slippers, and head out into the heat. And then something remarkable takes place.
Everyone mixes.
Rich and poor. Buddhist and Muslim. Thai and foreign. Every shade of life in between.
You scream as cold water hits your back. You laugh with strangers. You flirt with someone you may never see again. You dance badly in the street. You lock eyes for just a second too long.
You connect.
And it’s totally offline.
No feeds. No recommendations. No invisible system nudging you toward the “best” experience, the “right” people, the “optimal” moment.
Just chaos and choice.
And something else that I absolutely love: serendipity.
More than a decade ago, a friend of mine (an impossibly tall Australian) met the love of his life in the middle of a water fight on Silom Soi 4. No app. No algorithm. Just a moment that wasn’t programmed to happen, but just did.
I have my own memories, too.
Flirting with boys who caught my eye. Plenty of rejection. But also the occasional smile back, a wink, a fleeting conversation before being swept away again by the crowd. Meeting friends, losing them in the crowds, finding new ones. Stopping to let ladies put talcum on my face. Cooling off in the April heat. A beer here or there (and here again!). And, inevitably, a trail of broken slippers left behind in the pools of talcum tainted water.
None of it planned. None of it optimised. Zero role or influence from billionaire tech bros.
If we aren’t careful, that kind of life becomes harder to access.
AI will never replace Songkran. But the thing is, it doesn’t have to in order to weaken our humanity and our agency.
It just has to surreptitiously reshape how we experience the world. Who we meet. Where we go. What we notice. What we experience.
A synthetic life isn’t one where robots take over, but rather where nothing unexpected happens anymore. Where the robots pull the strings; and we dance to their designs.
Where you don’t meet the Australian guy in a water fight.
Where no one catches your eye across the street because an app already decided who you should like.
Where your choices feel like your own, but have been gently pre-curated.
Where serendipity has been optimised out.
And with it, something really human disappears.
The uncertainty. The butterflies. The awkward pauses. The hesitant touch of a hand or shoulder. The risk of rejection. The possibility of something real. The joy that comes from playing with water, often with complete strangers.
As I write this, I’m watching a couple walking along the beach. Too close to be just friends, not quite close enough to be something more. They walk slowly, partly in the water, as if they don’t want the moment to end.
They stop at a small beach restaurant. A spontaneous decision, it seems. A date? A trial run? Old friends reconnecting? I have no way of knowing.
What I do know is this: I haven’t seen a single phone between them. Their attention is on each other. And on where they are — this beach, this sunset, this moment.
As the sun sets on Songkran 2026, I find myself feeling grateful.
For the friends I played water with.
For the drinks we shared while making up stories about the people around us.
For the randomness of where we ended up, and who we met along the way.
For the fact that none of it was mediated.
My Songkran was analog. The way I want my humanity to be.
Unscripted. Unoptimised. Crazy and uncertain. Mine.